


The Piano

by thinkpink20



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-24
Updated: 2012-02-24
Packaged: 2017-10-31 16:25:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,403
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/346117
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thinkpink20/pseuds/thinkpink20
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock wakes in the night.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Piano

**Author's Note:**

> For those of you with whom I haven't rambled about my own personal Lestrade!canon, Hannah is Lestrade's dead wife; she died (along with their child) whilst giving birth to their first daughter.  
> For those wondering, Lestrade is playing the intro to [Hometown Glory by Adele.](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LWIbTYLNezQ)

Sherlock wakes and comes to his senses rapidly; this is his usual way of waking, bereft of sluggishness and the eye-rubbing he has seen others do. He is immediately alert, his senses are immediately precise.

He hears the ghostly echo of the piano floating up the stairs through the open bedroom doorway and looks down at the pool of bedsheets around his torso, draped on him like he's a Greek statue. He pushes them back off his long limbs and slides out of bed.

Sherlock finds boxer shorts on the floor, decides they're his. He puts them on and pads softly out onto the landing.

The tune is melancholy, almost like the sound of someone crying. It has the rise and fall of erratic breath when sobbing, but none of the indignity. It's almost bittersweet in some places; it gives Sherlock the odd feeling of safety. He has no idea why, wasn't aware he felt _un_ safe. He decides it must be the sleep, still effecting his brain.

He stands there for a few seconds longer, picking out the keys - C, F sharp, A minor. He likes A minor. It has an impeccable sense of the lonely about it.

Going down the stairs, Sherlock wishes brief for his dressing gown, the blue silk one. But it's back upstairs on the bed and he's too lazy to go and get it now. Best to just feel the cold. Sharpens the senses, anyway.

The hallway still has post scattered on the telephone table; he's had no time to look at it over the past few days but it doesn't concern him. He's got no time for tedious things like bills. He couldn't care less.

In the corner near the ancient umbrella stand, mould is growing thick and black and furry. He doesn't mind, he's going to move out soon anyway, knows a lady who owns a quiet little flat, she owes him a favour. Maybe he'll get a little off the rent, or find someone else to live with him. Maybe.

Sherlock follows the sound of the piano down to the back sitting room, the coldest place in the house. Even standing in the doorway the tune sounds ghostly, probably moreso than from upstairs. If he couldn't see the figure sitting behind the keys he might believe the neglected Steinway was playing itself.

Though it still technically feels like the middle of the night, Sherlock can see daylight seeping through the curtains, can hear the first calls of the dawn chorus. The light slants down through the room, sectioning off the walls and the floor and the long piano bench. One ray of weak morning light also falls across Lestrade's dark pyjama bottoms as he sits and plays and Sherlock stifles a yawn.

Last night they'd arrived home at half past two. Upon being confronted by the police (and one consulting detective) the kidnapper had shot the terrified little three year old girl he held in his grasp then turned the gun on himself. Before he silenced her she was sobbing for her mother, and the hard face of Sergeant Donovan had fallen, crumpled like an old paper bag as Sherlock watched.

He'd mostly felt a vague sense of disappointment that he'd never find out the kidnapper's motivation, now that he'd selfishly gone and died. 

That was the thing about criminals, you could never rely upon them to do the decent thing and explain themselves.

As he now goes over to the piano bench and sits down, Sherlock remembers the hollow, vacant look in Lestrade's eyes as the SOCO team had moved in, stepping carefully over tiny hands with tiny fingers, clenched into fists from the crying. He recalls that he didn't even try to stop Lestrade from following him home when their brief part in the game was over. He didn't even want to.

Maybe he's slipping.

Sherlock doesn't ask what the tune is, just watches Lestrade's careful fingers pick out the keys with the precise ease of the professionally trained. The piano has been here for the entire four years that Sherlock has, for the entire four years that Lestrade has known him. Sherlock has never heard him play before now. He's never so much as touched a key.

Of course Sherlock knew he _could_ play; sometimes when he's thinking he fingers out notes on the edge of his desk. Sherlock has seen him tap out Greensleeves more than once.

And of course when he moves his fingers silently up Sherlock's spine it is with the practiced grace of a musician. It always makes Sherlock shiver.

The tune is so melancholy that Sherlock can hear each note reverberate before the next one sounds and in his mind he sees the hammer hitting each string individually, his brain calculating the effort and mass it would take. He tries to just hear the note but he can't. The other stuff always comes with it.

His fingers moving into a slither of light from the curtains, Lestrade makes no sign that he realises Sherlock is there other than the gentle press of a knee against his under the ledge of the piano. The sensation is warm and reminds Sherlock of the press of bodies from a matter of hours ago, how soft and worn and sad Lestrade had looked when Sherlock started undressing him. How distracted and grateful and dark eyed he had been when he had finally kissed back, pulling Sherlock down into the soft sheets.

But now here they are with the sunlight beginning to rise over the various dirty corners of London and Sherlock estimates Lestrade must have only had two hours sleep, if he's had any at all. He wasn't gone when Sherlock finally closed his eyes, giving in to days and days worth of exhaustion after the kidnapping case. These are the roles reversed, Lestrade unable to shut off, Sherlock carelessly falling into dreamless sleep. It feels strange.

The music dips into a lower key and there's something softer about it now, something more like an aching lullaby that this time does enable Sherlock to just hear the music, just the sounds and the echoes rather than the inner workings of the machine. He concentrates on the curves and the sounds between the notes, the gaps left where the music _doesn't_ play. It's a whole new way to listen.

Without realising what he's doing, Sherlock feels his head dropping down to Lestrade's shoulder for a moment. They're close enough - geographically - and he's tired, several nights worth of sleep missing from his body. He stays that way as the music plays out, dipping lower and lower as the end approaches, resonating further as the notes become more sparse, the gaps between them louder with something far from silence. Even though he's never heard the piece before Sherlock knows the end is coming, hears it somewhere in his chest rather than his ears. 

It strikes him that it's really rather beautiful. He appreciates beauty when that's all it is, no more, no less.

The last note sounds and for a moment it's like he can still hear the tune playing. Sherlock thinks that's the mark of a good composer. Or a good pianist.

When the silence eventually intrudes, he lifts his head.

"Hannah's favourite piece," Lestrade says, and Sherlock nods like he understands.

"Are we going back to bed?" He eventually asks, slipping a foot between Lestrade's two parted ones on the floor to steal some warmth. He really wants to steal more, much more; skin and touch and the graze of a tongue.

"I won't be able to sleep," Lestrade replies, and for the briefest flash of a second Sherlock feels something when he looks into sad eyes.

The jolt makes him lean forward, press lips softly against Lestrade's. For the only time ever he's not doing it with a motive. It feels strange; another role reversed.

And then Lestrade is kissing him back, lips open slightly - just enough - and it's slow and gentle and lazy with meaning. Sherlock feels his curls crushed as their foreheads meet and rest against each other easily. The kiss is aching and simple and sad.

"Okay, bed." Lestrade says eventually, as though there's no other choice for him. Maybe there isn't.

Upstairs Sherlock steals his warmth away from, sliding a knee between warm thighs and arching into his skin. This time, Lestrade falls asleep before him.


End file.
